


In every sky in every hell (is your smile)

by Diablerie



Series: Because it is my heart [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Choking, Codependency, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Expanded Warnings in end notes, M/M, Marking, Mating Bond, Mating under duress, Mentions of Oral Knotting, Mentions of Panic Attacks, Mentions of exhibitionism, Mentions of forced incest, Not safe sane consensual, PWP, Power Dynamics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship under duress, Sex acts under duress, Sheriff Stilinski is not always perfect, Steter Week, Stockholm Syndrome, Unhealthy Relationships, blood is drawn, breath play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie/pseuds/Diablerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Still want him in your pack?"</i>
</p>
<p>Peter chooses a different answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In every sky in every hell (is your smile)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cannibalinc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalinc/gifts).



> I tried to make this as gross as I could for you, Canni. I think I exceeded my expectations. I also wrote this overnight and just finished having someone edit it. I don't know how I wrote this in one night. It will never happen again. I must have been touched by the spirit of disgusting porn.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Ara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Arabwel) for pre-reading/encouragement and to [Bones](http://archiveofourown.org/bonesofbirdwings) for the fantastic editing job. Having my porn micro-edited was a new experience for me, and not as painful as I thought it might be.
> 
> The title is from the song "Shades" by Dies Irae. 
> 
> **Warnings in the end notes**

For a second, Peter’s epic eyeroll makes Stiles feel a sense of kinship over their derision of Scott’s dumb username and password combo. It’s stupid to forget to be terrified of Peter Hale, but in the face of Scott’s ridiculous obsession with Allison, Stiles is justified. Who the hell wants to log into his own account as _his girlfriend_? It defies all human (and some inhuman) logics, but that’s his best friend. No one sane can accuse Scott McCall of a keen intellect or a sparkling wit. That’s more his department. It’s too much a part of his nature to snark, and while he’s too busy being amused over Scott, he speaks six life-changing words before he can stop himself.

“Still want him in your pack?”

_Shit._ Stiles’ pulse skyrockets. He feels like fainting or throwing up. Maybe both, and that totally solves his problem if he can die before Peter eviscerates him. Somehow, he manages—he thinks—to keep the dread from his too expressive face, but Stiles knows that won’t be enough against someone who can hear every random skip and flutter of his heart, who can _smell_ deception. Peter’s probably about to nod or indicate that yes, of course, he still wants Scott. Maybe he’ll just ignore Stiles’ little episode of mouthing off to scary creatures of the night.

None of those things happen. Instead, Peter doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t grin. _He smiles_ as though delighted. He takes Stiles by the back of the neck and _squeezes_. Peter’s alpha eyes light up like bloody lanterns, and he’s smiling. He keeps smiling as he asks in such soft and pleasant tones, “What would you give me to leave Scott alone?”

Stiles gapes. “Uh. A lot?”

“Whatever I want?”

“That deal isn’t even remotely fair. I wasn’t born yester—” Stiles squeaks in pain as sharp-tipped nails press with delicate precision into the tender skin of his nape.

“No, but you are out of choices, dear boy.” Peter’s fangs lengthen. Ridges form on his brow. His fangs make a grotesque mockery of his placid smile, showing the truth behind the lie. “You,” he growls. “I get you, and all your little friends go free.”

“I… That’s. But…I need time to think!” If not for the alpha werewolf holding him by the scruff of the neck, Stiles would be flailing or pacing. _Something_ to stave off the building panic.

“Tick tock, Stiles. Time to decide.”

“Okay! Fine. Yes. You can have me. For whatever good that will do you.”

“Wonderful,” Peter says, looking like the cat that caught the canary. The wolf that got the bunny? Peter keeps smiling down at him, beaming like a proud father. The way Stiles remembers his dad doing back before this werewolf bullshit started up. Depending on this deal with Peter, Stiles might never see that again, but Scott… Scott will be okay as long as Peter keeps his promise. He doesn’t know how, but he’ll _make_ Peter keep his promise. Stiles grips his loose shirttails with clammy palms and waits. He doesn’t know what’s about to happen, but it’s not that hard to guess.

Except Peter does surprise him, all with that gentle, happy expression pinned to his face as he slams Stiles face-first into the nurse’s car for the second time. Right before losing consciousness, his swimming vision focuses on the steady circles of red that are Peter’s eyes. Long fangs gleam in the dim light of the garage. There’s hot breath on his throat, and a guttural voice vibrating against his skin, “Close your eyes, Stiles. I’ll take care of everything.” 

Then the world explodes into pain as fire sears his nerve endings. Stiles shudders in Peter’s jaws once, twice. With that eerie, pleased smile hovering in his vision, he falls into the sweet release of unconsciousness.

* * *

Stiles steps into his house fifteen minutes before four o’clock. He knows better than to try and push the limits of his curfew after the last time. He toes off his shoes and lines them up by the wall. Stiles shifts his eyes to scan the living room, but it’s just his dad sitting in the dark with the TV on low volume. He nods carefully towards his dad and restrains the urge to hug him, to share scent with him. Stiles contents himself with the fact that they still live together and share space even though his dad seems a little more tired and old since the day Peter moved in with them.

“Son,” John tries to look happy—it falls short. “Peter’s upstairs waiting for you. He asked me to send you up as soon as you got home. I’m heading out now.”

“But I hardly get to see you anymore!”

“I know, kid. I know, but I’ve got a shift tonight. Figured I’d run a few errands first.”

He’s shaking with useless, pent-up rage. Stiles _knows_ that there are no errands. There’s probably not even a night shift. His dad just can’t stand being in the house when he’s powerless to stop any of it, when he can hear that Stiles begs for more and harder and for it to _hurt_. Stiles never asks which part is harder to bear. If he can help it, then he’ll never ask his dad that question. Knowing Peter, that’s probably going to be what he wants Stiles to give him for his birthday. 

“Stiles,” his dad drags him into an illicit embrace. Peter probably knows right now that John’s getting his smell all over his son. John is perfectly aware that Peter will know, and he’s prepared to pay Peter’s price. Stiles shudders and flops against his dad for the first time in three months. A few tears slip out and onto his dad’s uniform shirt. His scent will be all over the shoulder until laundry day. _Good._

“Be good tonight, Stiles. Do it for me.” His dad kisses him on the brow and scuffs his chin over Stiles’ temple. Stiles blinks at so much extra contact. His dad is pulling out all the stops tonight. He must be really mad at Peter for _something_. Stiles isn’t sure he wants to know the reason, but once again he’s been drawn right into the middle of their pissing contest instead of merely being the territory they fight over and pass back and forth. He swallows hard, dreading what Peter will do in retaliation, unsure who the target will be. Stiles hopes it won’t be him. A surge of anger startles him, and before the guilt kicks in, he hates his dad just a little for treating him like the rope in a tug-of-war. Stiles shoves down the uncomfortable feelings and squeezes his dad back as hard as he can. If this is the only Dad-hug he’s getting for another three months, then they’ll make it worth whatever Peter does.

Part of him can’t wait to find out what Peter will do to him this time.

“Bye, Dad,” Stiles chokes out. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“That’s right, kid. I’ll bring breakfast from The Diner.”

“It’s a date, old man.” They both know a family breakfast probably won’t be in the cards. Not unless Stiles can be good enough tonight to earn a reward.

They break apart. His dad scurries away with a guilty, hangdog expression and grabs the duffel bag sitting by the door. Stiles shoves down another wave of resentment at the thought of his dad spending the night at the McCalls, but he smiles as his dad shuts the door and turns the key. Smiles without betraying his inner turmoil, and then it’s just Stiles in the house. Stiles and Peter.

Squaring his shoulders, Stiles marches upstairs to greet his mate. He’s delayed long enough.

It’s pure bravado that allows him to walk into their room like nothing’s wrong. He bares his body as he goes, exposing the collar of bruises and marks on his hips and back to Peter’s avid gaze. In a few long steps, he’s directly in front of the spot where Peter sits on their bed. Stiles lifts his chin and smiles. “Hi, Peter.”

Peter aims a tiny frown at him. “Now is that what you’re supposed to call me, baby?”

“No, I’m sorry… Daddy,” he mutters in a small voice. It’s awful. He hates how warmth rushes through him. How his insides squirm in mingled resentment and happiness. How the bond between them lights up at Peter’s pleasure and echoes back to his side, forming feedback loops of possessive adoration and desire. “I missed you today,” Stiles admits.

“Isn’t that much nicer, baby? I missed you, too.” Peter smiles. It has every appearance of sincerity. “Did you have a nice talk with your father?”

Stiles’ breath catches in fear at the reminder of all the forbidden touching and scent-marking with his dad. Usually, he succeeds at ignoring all the things he’s not allowed to do anymore. Or the fact that he won’t survive losing Peter, but at times like this he wishes for a hero to save him. That his dad can be the hero Stiles imagined as a child.

_God._ He misses his dad _so much_.

Panic claws at his throat and his heart beats like bird wings against his ribs, trying to burst free from his chest. But in a matter of seconds, the bond sends soothing pulses at him even as Peter draws him down in between his thighs. The conflicting signals force Stiles’ body to quit pumping out adrenaline. Stiles doesn’t handle the abrupt hormonal shifts well whenever Peter uses the bond to stop a panic attack, and his knees buckle the rest of the way.

Tender hands arrange his kneeling body. “Shhh, Stiles. It’s okay. It’s all right, baby. I’d never hurt you or punish you for what someone else did to you. Not now that we understand each other. I’m not cruel. I’m not the monster here.” Peter guides Stiles’ face until it rests against his thigh, Stiles’ hair brushing the front of Peter’s shirt. “Just close your eyes and breathe, honey. I’ll make it all better.” Stiles kneels with Peter’s legs bracketing him, gently reinforcing his status as Peter’s precious boy—owned and protected. Peter’s endless praise washes over him in a soothing murmur. “That’s it, baby. You’re so pretty like this. Such a good boy when you listen to Daddy. Just keep breathing for me.”

Peter strokes his hair and face, trailing human nails over the back of his neck until Stiles shivers. He breathes deep and even, Peter’s scent comforting to his slightly more-than-human senses. Just another mystical perk of being a werewolf’s mate. The nails scratch his neck, his temple, his sensitive earlobe and the spot behind it. Stiles can’t hold in his pathetic, begging whines. It’s embarrassing how fast Peter can pull him down to this confusing headspace where all he wants is his Daddy, his Peter. Every protest falls away, no matter how valid, and it all feels too good to stop.

Stiles arches into the pointed caress even as he presses his face further into the crease of Peter’s pants-covered thigh. He mindlessly mouths over the denim, glutting himself on the scent of his alpha and mate. The part of him that’s been changed by the mating bond rolls over and glories in Peter’s approval, in the growing arousal from both sides of the bond. He can’t help reacting to it. He’s not made of stone.

“Please,” he moans in helpless desire. “Daddy, please.”

“That’s right, baby.” Peter tugs at Stiles’ hair, now long enough to fall into his eyes without proper grooming. “You’re a good boy who wants to make Daddy happy. Always hungry for Daddy’s cock in your ripe, little mouth.” Peter unzips his pants and shimmies until his cock and balls are free. “Go on, sweetheart,” he urges. “Make it good, and I’ll give you a special treat.”

His heart thuds erratically at the promise of a _special treat_. Peter’s treats tend to be humiliating and awful even if they do make him come. Still, he parts his lips, laps at the edge of Peter’s foreskin. He flicks his tongue down and around to expose the head of Peter’s rapidly hardening cock so that he can give a brief suck to the reddening glans. He pops off, licks his lips, and widens his eyes before asking, “May I use my hands, Daddy?”

Peter tightens his grip on Stiles’ hair and smiles. “Of course, honey. Whatever you need.” Stiles wastes no time in wrapping his hand around Peter’s cock and rolling back the foreskin completely. He pumps the shaft a few times just to revel in the feeling of the hot, silky flesh hardening in his hand. When Peter’s at about half-mast, Stiles laves at the damp slit. The taste of Peter’s pre-cum is familiar enough to be a comfort. Humming happily, he takes in a deep breath through his nose and lowers his head, relaxing his throat in preparation. It feels like forever, but finally he’s as far down as he can manage without help. He grabs onto Peter’s hips then, and yanks. His human strength isn’t enough to do anything without Peter’s sufferance, but Peter knows what Stiles wants. So the hand on his hair shoves down just as Peter’s hips buck sharply. _There._ Peter’s cock is buried in Stiles’ throat, exactly where it belongs. 

“My pretty baby. You always feel amazing. Such a good boy for me.” At the praise, Stiles moans and suckles the cock filling his mouth, but he needs more. One hand drifts lower to fondle Peter’s heavy balls while the other pinches Peter’s hip. Stiles wants to be good for his daddy, but he really needs to have his mouth pounded. When Peter doesn’t take the hint, he whines around the cock in his mouth and _carefully_ tugs at Peter’s balls. The reaction is instantaneous. Peter’s cock drives forward, further down his throat, and Stiles slumps in Peter’s lap—a willing vessel. He can’t tell anymore who’s feeling what; he only knows that everything is warm and tingly. His brain is flooded with endorphins and the rush of pleasure-pain. Stiles’ throat almost can’t take the girth stretching it open, but their joint arousal sings through the bond, drowning out the soft counterpoint of discomfort.

“Watch your hands,” Peter snaps. “No pulling.”

He obeys without complaint now that he has what he wants, puts both hands on Peter’s straining thigh muscles and squeezes in appreciation. Peter’s so hard and strong and _everywhere_. It’s dizzying. He’s getting close to coming already, and no one’s even touching his poor dick. It’s bobbing back and forth, smearing streaks of pre-cum on his belly, and Stiles needs Peter to come soon before he loses control. He doesn’t want to be in trouble right now. Stiles redoubles his efforts and strokes his tongue along the shaft. Peter thrusts with abandon. The tension rises between them, the incessant vibration of the bond a relief and a torment as their mutual bliss turns razor-edged. 

“Christ!” Peter snarls. “I knew you’d be like this once I trained you right. You couldn’t keep your mouth closed to save your life.” His claws lengthen and dig into Stiles’ scalp. The pain barely registers, but Stiles can feel the minuscule trickle of blood on his scalp. _Shit._ Blood always rouses Peter’s more bestial instincts. He hangs on as Peter’s rhythm falters and hopes it won’t be like the last time. “Would you show the pack how sweet you are for me? Let them watch as I fuck your throat and knot your mouth?” Tears prick at Stiles’ eyelids, and he lets out a garbled whimper on a vicious upstroke. “Yeah,” Peter rumbles. “You would if I asked. You like to make your daddy happy. Don’t you, baby? You’d do anything for me.” Peter shoves in all the way, uncaring that Stiles can’t breathe with his face pressed into Peter’s pelvis. “You’d let me crack your jaw open like an egg. Fuck your little face until I ruin your throat. You won’t have a voice after I’m done with you.” 

He grinds his cock in cruel little circles and growls, “Next time I’ll take you on your father’s bed. Make him watch. Make him stuff your mouth while I knot you from behind. We’ll show him how a real daddy treats his boy.” At Peter’s threat, Stiles’ dick jumps. His throat spasms around Peter’s length as he fights the urge to come all over himself. The muscle spasms trigger Peter’s orgasm, and Stiles’ mouth floods with bitter semen. Peter gasps out, “Fuck, I love you so much, baby. Take all of Daddy’s cum.” 

There’s so much that it starts dripping out from the corners of his mouth. Thankfully, Peter doesn’t pop his knot, but he holds Stiles down long enough for black spots to fill his vision. Peter only pulls out when Stiles goes limp and sways. Once his mouth is free, Stiles gasps and wheezes for air, eyes flooding with moisture as he recovers. The world tilts sideways, sliding out from underneath him. He crumples against Peter and sobs. Everything is too much. Stiles clutches frantically at Peter’s waist. The bond is wide open; he’s totally vulnerable to whatever Peter has planned next. 

Peter makes nonsense noises at Stiles. He wipes away tears with blood-spotted fingertips and smears the trickles of cum over Stiles’ cheeks, neck, and hair. The other hand drops to the love bites covering Stiles’ collarbones. With a reverence Stiles can feel pinging down the bond, Peter traces over the marks from memory and digs his thumb into one of the dark, purple bruises circling Stiles’ neck—unerringly choosing the most tender spot. Stiles’ battered throat seizes on a gasp. He trembles, caught in Peter’s hands, and begs with a rough voice, “Daddy. _Please._ ”

“There you are, honey. Are you back with me?” Peter croons. “What does my baby boy want?”

“I didn’t finish,” he sniffles. “C’n I come now?”

“Of course you can come.” Peter murmurs. “You can have anything you want.”

“Hmm,” Stiles leans in to press his lips to Peter’s abs and licks a stripe beside the trail of hair. He amuses himself there until Peter cards a hand through hair sticky with sweat and cum. 

“Here, baby. Climb up. I don’t want you getting cold.” Peter pats his thigh in encouragement, like he’s calling a lap dog. Stiles doesn’t have the energy to be insulted; he simply crawls up into Peter’s lap. He’s exhausted from the school day and the bond and almost choking on Peter’s cock. Stiles curls his lanky body until he can butt his head under Peter’s chin. He shivers and drapes one of Peter’s arms around himself. Peter chuckles and indulges Stiles in his tacit demand for cuddles.

Peter nuzzles the hair above Stiles’ ear. “I thought you wanted to come?”

“I do,” Stiles yawns. “But I’m happy. ‘m gonna rest for a minute. Then you can make me come.”

“Just close your eyes, baby.” Peter rocks him slowly, lulling him to sleep. Everything’s easy as the bond wraps him in soft contentment. “I’ll take care of you when you wake up. I’ll always take care of you.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Warnings might contain spoilers:**  
>  Peter asks Stiles what he'd give in exchange for Scott's safety. Peter coerces Stiles into offering himself.
> 
> It's implied that Sheriff Stilinski and Peter often fight over Stiles and use him as leverage over the other or use him during their arguments. We see one instance of that during the Sheriff and Stiles interaction.
> 
> Non-con vs dub-con? I'm not going to get into it here, but your mileage may vary. Stiles was coerced into saying yes to everything. Peter holds most of the power in the relationship over both Stilinskis. During sex, Stiles doesn't always want to say no to Peter he also _can't_ say no. He's also overtly and subtly manipulated by the mating bond. At this point, he can't tell how many of his feelings are really his own and what he feels from Peter's side or because of Peter using the bond to intensify things. 
> 
> Basically, what I'm saying is that this is gross and fucked up. Peter loves Stiles? For certain values of love, but it is not good or healthy. His love absolves none of his behavior. Please don't read this if any of what I've described is going to trigger you. Please don't read this if any of what I described is going to make you leave me a nasty comment.
> 
> **To everyone who read this:** Thanks so much! I appreciate you taking the time. If you noticed any leftover mistakes, issues, or tags I should include, then please let me know.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In every sky in every hell (is your smile): the playlist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279008) by [Diablerie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diablerie/pseuds/Diablerie)




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